


Witchcraft

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Sunshine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: Crowley finds Aziraphale sprawled on his stomach in the sunshine, way way down at the bottom of the garden, by the river. He’s got a bottle of vodka tucked under his nearest arm, his other arm is dangling into the water.It's a party, but who cares about the other people?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Witchcraft

**Author's Note:**

> I have exchanged my blood for vodka. I am now swimming in it. Drunken writing. hmmmmmmm the vodka truly does taste like softness.
> 
> it's teen an up because I can't for the life of me remember what i wrote. 
> 
> unbeta'ed. If anyone WANTS to beta read these for me.....

Crowley finds Aziraphale sprawled on his stomach in the sunshine, way way down at the bottom of the garden, by the river. He’s got a bottle of vodka tucked under his nearest arm, his other arm is dangling into the water. His trouser legs are rolled up and his feet and legs bare and wet. Crowley huffs a soft laugh and leans on a tree to watch Aziraphale talk to the water. No, he’s talking to fish. Crowley moves closer, peering into the water. Sure enough, when Aziraphale wiggles his fingers the darker water by his hand breaks up, hundreds of tiny fish darting away. 

“There you are! Oh! Oh!” Aziraphale crows. 

Crowley blinks, shifting his focus so he can see better below the surface, to see what’s got Aziraphale wriggling closer through the grass with excitement. A bigger fish, is what. Nearly four inches, slow and deeper below Aziraphale’s fingers, white and fat and distorted through sunshine and water. 

“What’ve you named her?” Crowley asks, delighted by Aziraphale’s startlement to his presence; a squeak and jerk and splosh of water, a yelp, twisting and jerking up to his feet and nearly falling in the river. “Hullo.”

“Oh you, you, you,” Aziraphale sputting, hanging onto Crowley’s arms to steady himself. “You devil! Honestly. What if I had dropped the vodka?”

“It’s empty,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale pushes him away and catches up the bottle, snugging it into his arms and glowering. It takes him three tries to get the top unscrewed. He checks twice that it’s empty, upending it into his mouth, lips around the brim. Crowley’s enrapt watching, Aziraphale’s face is the most beautiful thing. Crowley stares at his lips as Aziraphale disappointedly licks the very last drops of vodka away. 

“Why ‘her’?” Aziraphale asks, going to look in the river again. He bends to look closer and Crowley snags his suspenders. He looks unsteady. 

“Because everyone always says ‘him’ for everything, and I like to stir things up a bit,” Crowley says. 

“Hm,” Aziraphale says. “Ze’s called ‘Junker’. And you scared zir away. Crashing about like that.”

“Crashing about?” Crowley questions, idly, trying to find a little outrage to put into his tone just for the fun of it. “I was stealthy. You didn’t even know I was there.”

“I knew, I had just dismissed you as unimportant, background white-noise,” Aziraphale says. 

And that’s strangely charming. Crowley feels his cheeks heat, he feels it right down to his bones, and the backs of his hands too, like he’s on fire. Maybe it’s the sunshine. 

“I’d better go find suncream,” he mutters, touching his cheek, finding it hot. 

“You’re blushing,” Aziraphale explains patiently. Like Crowley might not know that. 

Crowley considers pushing him in the river. It would be nice and cool. Maybe he should put himself in the river. Aziraphale supposes him done talking, he sits down and puts his feet back in the water, laughing as the fish swarm around the disturbance. Crowley copies him. 

“You should at least take your shoes off,” Aziraphale scolds. 

Crowley has only supposed he was wearing shoes, so it’s not too hard to suppose he’s not, afterall. Probably forgot to put them on this morning. 

“Your trousers are getting wet,” Aziraphale says. “You’re beautiful.”

Crowley squints at the opposite bank of the river, where people are walking by. They have a dog, who stops and barks at Crowley. Animals never like him, always smell Hell on him. It’s the sulphur. They know better than people. 

Better than angels, too, Crowley thinks, as Aziraphale leans across to kiss his shoulder and neck and jaw, tongue against the salt of his skin. Angels should know better. But then, licking a match does taste good, even to humans. Or maybe that’s just the humans like Aziraphale, accidentally built like angels. Feeling over the world with senses too big for them, too wonderful. Maybe just those humans like the taste of matches, like the way fire  _ tastes _ . 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, kicking his feet through the water, weight falling against Crowley and then lifting away as Aziraphale tips almost into the river, again. “Look! Crowley, fish! There, fish!”

Crowley looks. Maybe this one is five inches. He hums in acknowledgement that he’s seen and then watches Aziraphale lose his shit for excitement instead, rocking and crowing joyfully, hands flailing. People call him names for it sometimes, and the more times Crowley overheard it the more he understands the haven the bookshop is with it’s quiet, empty echoing warmth. No one there cares if Aziraphale is happy. Unstifled, unquelled happiness that spins him in circles and turns his head this way and that, fingers and hands moving through the air to grasp and stroke over the wonder of it all, pulling out music. 

“I love you,” Crowley says, looking again at the other bank, at the trees and leaves so green with summer, the blackberries he knows will come, across the water and fish and so much beauty and chaos. It’s so, so…

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, pleased. “Oh. You do? You do. And I love these fish, and the vodka. Shall we get some more? It’s so soft and warm.”

“I tell you I love you, and you tell me about vodka? You’re drunk,” Crowley says. 

“But you already  _ know  _ I love you, I haven’t told you about the vodka before,” Aziraphale says. “I like to tell you new things.”

“And besides which, you want me to fetch you more vodka.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, beaming at Crowley as if in reward for getting it. 

Crowley would quite like to be told he’s loved, but he supposes he  _ did  _ already know that Aziraphale’s bonkers about him. So he gets up and wanders back up the house. He’d forgotten this was a party they were supposedly attending, he’s pretty certain that Aziraphale is only friends with these people because they have the river in their garden and he loves the river. It’s all the same to him, Crowley thinks as he gets another bottle of the vodka Aziraphale brought. Whether the love Aziraphale feels is for the people or the river, it all smushes together and ends up the same thing, and then he’ll blurt out something like ‘oh they’re the  _ river _ people I  _ like  _ them, they’re having a party this weekend shall we go?’ and Crowley doesn’t know if Aziraphale means the happiness to be about the river or the people or if they’re even distinguishable anymore. Daft angel. 

He makes his way back down the garden again, trousers half-wet, dripping, feet bare. He feels utterly foolish, but figures foolishness is as good a declaration of affection as any other, and minds it less and less. He would do  _ anything  _ for Aziraphale. He would do anything at all in any world just to see Aziraphale’s exaltation at his return. Or, he thinks glumly, at the return of the vodka. He sits and sticks his feet back in the river, leaving Aziraphale to open the bottle and glug it down. 

“Oh you are wonderful,  _ wonderful _ ,” Aziraphale says, weight against Crowley again, lips against his skin, hot and close. Joyful but rawer, clearer, kneeling in the mud to grasp at Crowley, fingers over Crowley’s waistcoat like he’s music. “I do, I do. Every day, so much, you are wonder.”

“Uh,” Crowley says. Aziraphale laughs, head against Crowley’s shoulder, so drunk and so happy, arms around him, soft and pressed close, body pushed into Crowley’s, bones and hard and soft and gorgeous. “Give us the vodka, then.”

“Anything you wish,” Aziraphale says, lips against Crowley’s ear. “Anything. Anything, anything at all.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes I have licked matches, haven't you?


End file.
